Therapy
by Jaffa Bakers
Summary: Rocket x Drax fanfiction. Got the idea from reading Little Slips and it just sort of cascaded from there. The story contains major spoilers and various headcanons are put into play. Rocket has been having trouble since Groot 'died' after the fight with Ronan and is surprised when help and comfort come from an unlikely source from amongst his friends.
1. Chapter 1

"FUCK!" The curse broke through the eerie silence aboard the Milano, echoing out from the bathroom. Hot water cascaded down in a fall, steaming the entire bathroom on contact with the stainless floor of the shower. Rocket was trying to reach that spot around his implants on his back but his arms just didn't reach, even with the added distance that the scrubber allowed.

He pitched the useless thing into the wall and let it fall with a clatter, putting his head into his hands with a quiet groan. He hated to admit it, but he needed help. The sort of help that Groot used to give him but now the dumb sap had gotten himself blown to bits, he was downright useless in that pot down in the meeting room. Why did the stupid fucker have to go and do something as dumb as that? It was a question that constantly burned underneath the other ones in the back of the raccoon's mind, most of them related to the same incident of his past.

He only bothered with drying himself enough that his underwear wouldn't stick to his fur before he pushed the bathroom door open, grunting as he collided with a large trunk of green that obscured his vision. He didn't even need to look up along the red line that wrapped around that mast of leg to know who it belonged to.

"Get outta m' krutackin' way, Drax. 'm not in the mood to deal with yer stupid ass." He made a motion to push past, stopped by a hand on top of his head that didn't exactly stop him from leaving, but certainly discouraged it.

"What is the matter, friend Rocket? You were quite loud in your displeasure for whatever was wrong." Such an eloquent way for the large man to say 'I heard something and got worried.' but the light care in the man's voice was enough to make Rocket to pause in place with a furrowed brow.

"Th' krag d' ya care about that for? Just some personal problems with th' shower is all. Can I go now?" The procyon kept his gaze resolutely forward, not wanting to dignify the green giant with even a glance towards his face. This was stupid, it was just him being loud and foul-mouthed as usual. What made THIS instance so different?

Instead of a response, Rocket was met with silence. A tension hung across the moment, stretching it out until the procyon was practically fidgeting under what he was sure was Drax's 'you're lying to me and I don't like it' face. It made him feel every single sin that he'd ever committed all at once and he didn't even know which one Drax might've been focusing on.

He couldn't take it anymore, he pushed the hand off of his head and looked up towards Drax's smug green face to find that it wasn't quite so smug. It was concerned, the brow knit with worry and a gentle ease behind his eyes. Rocket sighed aloud before he finally muttered out. "Can't reach m' back in th' damn shower."

Drax nodded, a stoic expression on his face though Rocket swore he saw some bit of mirth dancing in his irises. "I take that it was Groot who assisted you in the showers most of the time?" Rocket didn't need to nod the affirmation before the muscled man continued on. "Perhaps it might be best if you had someone to help you in the showers?"

"What, like you, jolly green? Notta chance on y' life." Rocket practically spat the words out with more venom than he'd intended but now it was out there, hanging between them like a noxious cloud that made the raccoon want to choke on his own spittle right then and there to let his death be a distraction.

"It was merely a suggestion." The words felt like ice on the raccoon's ears. "If you do not need the help, then I shall let you take care of yourself." And with that, Drax pushed into the bathroom to leave Rocket standing there in the hallway.

As soon as Drax was out of sight, the raccoon gripped at his face, pulling down on the fur of his cheeks as he let out a low, simpering groan. He kicked angrily at the wall, only getting pain lancing up the augmented limb and making him bite down a whine of pain. "Krag my fuggin' life! Swear there's somethin' out there laughin' at me!" He hissed to the open air, storming down the hallway with no real goal in mind, save to be around something comforting.

"I am Groot?" Came the small voice from the wooden creature on top of the table.

"What? No, no. 'm fine ya lug. Just you focus on getting better." Rocket pushed his stepstool over towards the meeting/breakfast table. He poured a small cup of water and brought it up onto the table with him, easing the liquid into Groot's pot and watching the dried dirt moisten.

Groot gave an exaggerated rub of his stomach area, an expression that he'd obviously learned after watching Quill down an entire pizza for himself, letting out a happy 'I am Groot!' at the refreshment hitting the network of xylem vessels and breathing new life into him.

"Heh, glad ya like the water here at least. 's got some good minerals an' junk in it. You been eatin' all yer plant food, right?" Rocket allowed himself a brief sort of smile that he reserved solely for Groot, enjoying the sight of the guy growing up healthy again.

"I am Groot."

"What?! No, I'm not hiding anything from ya! Come on, after all these years, you'd think that you'd trust me a bit more or somethin'." He put on his best offended face to add to the illusion, but he knew it wouldn't be fooling Groot.

"I. Am. Groot."

"Yes! I'm mad at the big lug for darin' to say that I might need someone besides your help in the damn shower! It's uncomfortable is what it is. I mean, I only started tolerating you because you literally have no junk to worry about accidentally getting a faceful of! That an' the implants were itchin' without proper care."

"I am Groot."

"What, make him wear his clothes in th' shower? Or wear mine? Tha's unsanitary is what it is! No need for it an' there's certainly no need for him t'-"

"I am Groot." The miniature Groot folded his arms stoically, affixing Rocket with a look that the raccoon hated: disappointment.

"Fine! I know I'm just makin' excuses but I didn't need t' hear it like that. Honestly, insultin' my pride on top of tellin' me I'm just bein' a stubborn jackass." Rocket pursed his lips a little. He wanted to throw something, but the only things that would get him was a little winded and still leave him angry at the end of it. Just with something broken on top of it.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his snout between two fingers. Like this he could feel the broken bones that the scientists who'd put him together had left as a reminder of what was necessary for him to speak. It still hurt sometimes and it definitely wasn't pleasant when he got sick, getting stuffed up enough that he sounded like he was underwater.

It wasn't much distance between the galley and the bathroom, so it didn't give Rocket nearly enough time to think of what he was going to say when he knocked on the door. He rapped loudly on the metal door, waiting for a few moments before speaking to what he hoped was Drax behind the door.

"Drax. I gotta say I was bein' a right jackass an' maybe I'm willin' t' listen to your plan about how we can not make me stink up the joint until such time as Groot is fully restored." Blunt, simple and with just that edge of humility needed in a proper apology. By the raccoon's account, that was the perfect sort of apology and it needed nothing else.

It was a few moments before the door opened, Drax once again looking down on the procyon with what looked like a smile curling the edge of his lips. "Your apology is accepted. Perhaps now we should discuss terms, as I assume that is what your idea of this 'deal' we are making needs."

Rocket nodded, drawing himself up to his full height before he started rattling it off. "First, since we can't really jus' wear clothes in the shower, we just make sure we don't look at one another's junk. Y' look your way, an' I look mine. You help me clean my back aroun' the implants and that's it." He swallowed a bit. "And I swear if you tell anyone b'sides Groot, I will flay you in your sleep and leave you on some sun-scorched wasteland until you cook. Unnerstand?"

"Your terms are agreed and accepted. Now, let us get you in the shower. It does you no good to leave the area around your cybernetics untreated." Which was the truth, there were all sorts of nightmarish things that Rocket had heard about improper care. Especially from the scientists who'd 'created' him, up until he'd snapped and slaughtered them all to leave the laboratory a scorched and ruined heap, never to be spoken of again.

Rocket stripped out of the underwear as soon as he the door was closed behind them, the procyon using his bushy tail to cover his frontal bits as he walked forward. The water came on again after Drax's large feet stumped over to the shower, leaving them both standing in an awkward silence as water poured over every inch of their nude forms. They stayed there like that for what seemed like an eternity, Rocket keeping his arms folded over his chest and his eyes forward.

It was coming, but he still hissed instinctively when the strong, calloused hands met his back. The hands were surprisingly gentle as they nearly caressed his flesh and worked a bar of soap into lather, spreading the foaming bubbles across the procyon's fur. The contact with the implants was brief, but it still made him cringe and nearly fold in on himself.

"They must be sensitive, being so exposed like this." Drax said simply, moving his hands subtly away from the scarred tissue but it still made Rocket grateful for the gesture. "The ones who... who put you together certainly did no favors for your natural anatomy."

"Nah, they sure as hell didn't. Jammed shit int' my hands, my feet, my back... I think I might have some plates in my head, what makes me so stubborn." The joke fell flat in the air, Rocket's voice ringing hollow even as he said it. He felt no joy about his conditions, even if he appreciated the use of the myriad metal under his skin and what it did for his overall capabilities.

"Your story is indeed a sad one, my friend. Everyone aboard this vessel lost something before we joined this group." The hands moved away, letting Rocket rinse his back free of the soapy residue. Already he felt better, a pleased sigh working out of the mammal's lips. Before he could make a move to get out, twin hands held firm to his shoulders.

Rocket visibly bristled up until the hands started to work along his shoulders, easing knots out of the muscle that the raccoon had never noticed building up. Every motion of thick, calloused thumbs worked a weak groan out of him and some small bit of tension. The mammal's eyes instinctually lidded themselves, a small hum working out of his throat as he pressed back easily into the powerful hands. Who knew that such strong, murderous hands could also be so... magical?

The hands worked from his shoulders to his arms, squeezing and gripping around the comparitively thin arms. Lactic acid was so painfully easy to build up for the raccoon, it still surprised him just what a little work could do. Biceps reduced into jelly, the hands went further up, taking hold of Rocket's hands and pressing into the metal-infused digits. There was the worst of it, the mammal groaned under the expert care at which they worked those digits to an easy looseness.

He flexed his fingers against the working hands, rewarded with a matching squeeze from the emerald mitts of the gentle giant. His breathing slowed down as let himself get guided in different positions with those warm hands working along his furred body, made all the better by the hot water rushing over them. It let Rocket do the unthinkable: He relaxed.

"That is much better, you were so tense. It is no wonder that you are snapping at the team so often." The voice was soft, practically crooned into the mammal's sensitive ear.

"How'd y' get such fuckin' magic fingers, big green?" Rocket muttered aloud, his voice sounding dim to his own ears as if from far away. Like he was looking down on the situation from a distance, he swore he could feel the presence of the man behind him and he just sighed in blissful pleasure.

"Studying anatomy, I learned many things. I learned how to kill as easily as I learned how to bring comfort. There may have even been a brief time I considered becoming a medicinal professional, but that is in the past." Drax stated firmly, thumbs working into Rocket's palms as he spoke. "But that as all gone when-"

"When your wife and child were slain by Thanos. Sorry for cutting across it like that, but that's about what it was, wasn't it?" He didn't need to hear or see the nod to know that Drax was doing just that. "Look, I'm gonna level... why not move on from 'em? Drop the whole revenge thing entirely?"

"Because unlike the ones who crafted you in their twisted image, my enemy still draws breath. I will kill the mad god and he will know to fear my name before then." The voice growled from behind Rocket and he knew he'd stepped over the line. Even the pressure on his palms was vaguely uncomfortable now.

It was quiet, just the sound of the running water to keep them company. They'd both lost track of the time, the water didn't nearly seem so warm as before. Certainly not as inviting. Rocket's eyes fixated on a point on the shower wall, trying to bring a single speck of dirt into focus than talk at the moment.

To Drax's credit, he kept up the massage going despite the rather uncomfortable topic that had come between the pair of them. At least the steam was helping Rocket's sinuses out a little bit, clearing out some of the stuffiness that he felt at all times.

Drax's fingers slowly worked back up from the palms, sliding along wrists and up to shoulders before easing around them. The palms squeezed rhythmically, driving the thumbs against the corded muscle to drive it into a looser state. It practically made the mammal butter in Drax's hands, his tail tip even fidgeting a little bit away from his groin. And then the man spoke aloud.

"...Rocket." Drax spoke, his voice like a rumble of thunder. "You are... aroused." There was a chuckle somewhere in there, as if it found the situation amusing. Drax probably did, but the first thing Rocket felt was an ice cold pit forming in the center of his stomach as he looked down at the pink thing standing against his stomach fur.

"FUCK!" Rocket screamed out suddenly, clutching at his privates as he bolted from underneath the running water. He didn't even bother with his clothing, grabbing a towel on the way out and streaking down the hall to his private quarters. Inside, he locked the door and disabled the outside communicator. He wanted nothing more than to shrink into oblivion, to disappear into some small hole and never come back out.

But first he had a problem to take care of.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a common nightmare. He'd snapped. Even when this moment had been happening, Rocket hadn't even been aware of what he was doing until it was all over. The madness that'd locked him in that zombie-like state had left a veil over his eyes as he did the unthinkable. But here in the dreamscape, he got it all.

Every expression of horror, of men and women being killed indiscriminately, every time his claws sank into skin or his teeth bit into flesh. He'd found a gun at some point and started using it as well as his unnatural gifts, sending anyone he found on his rampage to the grave.

When it was all over, Rocket was left standing on a vista overlooking the compound, watching as oily smoke roiled into the sky and brought the stink of charred flesh with it. He smelled copper, but that was just the blood coating his hands and face.

"You murdered us." A man in a white labcoat approached Rocket, his spectral form see-through though the mammal could see that he was one of the unfortunate few who'd had his throat torn out.

"I didn't! You freaks kidnapped me, experimented on me, made me into some genetic freak!" Justified as Rocket felt, it stll rang hollow on his ears.

"You murdered us." The spectral voice whispered, the words crackling like the fire that Rocket was watching.

"I. I didn't. It wasn't murder. It was justice. It was justice!" Rocket screamed as he sank to his knees, clutching at his face.

"Murder." It felt like picking at a wound, like he was ripping the scab out just to understand how it would feel.

Rocket awoke feeling colder than an arctic moon, clammy sweat clinging to every inch of his form. He dimly recognized that the ship had put itself on 'night' mode, leaving just starlight and ambient sunlight to crack through the viewing window above his bed.

He eased himself up from his haphazard laying position, putting his hands into his face. Here in the quiet and dark of his quarters, he could let it all out. He wept. As quietly as he could, he stifled the urge to keen like some animal and just let the tears roll down his face. Night terrors, horrid visions of his treatment, it didn't matter.

He could've stopped himself from killing all those people. Thirty-six. That was the number of people who'd worked in that compound. Sure, they'd experimented on him. Treated him as animal until he'd proven to be More, but hadn't they fed him? Even given him clothes when he'd expressed distate over being naked?

But some... some rage had made itself known in him. A psychopath that needed vengeance for being ripped out of his carefree state and made aware of all the horrors of being sentient came out of him that day. And it still showed in brief flashes when he was in the moment and fighting for his life, especially when he was pushed against a corner with relatively few options.

He wiped at his eyes, this did him no good to think about this. To worry this much about his nightmares, sitting here in the dark with only his tears for comfort. He sighed and pushed off of the bed, letting his feet touch the floor for a few moments before he started walking.

His path was aimless, his mind allowing him the knowledge that he was checking on everyone. Doors quietly cracked open, peeking on the sleeping forms of his comrades. Drax was rolled over with his back to the wall, chest falling and rising in rhythm. Quill was laying spread across his bedsheets, snoring like the engine start-up of an old clunker. Gamora slept in her chair, sword at her side and not even once releasing the handle. Even Groot was napping, curled up in his pot on top of the breakfast table. Rocket smiled a bit, at least his team could enjoy the quiet of the night.

The cockpit was free of anyone, leaving Rocket to sink into the pilot's chair and bring it out of its autopilot settings. He adjusted the ship's course for drift, watching as the field of stars rolled on slowly by. Up in the distance a red and blue nebula lay splattered across the inky black, stretching out tendrils in all directions as if it might grab hold of the surrounding asteroids.

"You are very loud in your sleep, Rocket." The voice broke like lightning across a storm-swept plain. Drax eased himself into the cockpit as well, taking his normal seat at the weapons station just across from the procyon.

Rocket dismissed the statement with an off-handed wave. "Nh. Just ignore whatever it is ya think ya heard an' we can all go back to being somewhat normal again." He didn't want to look directly at Drax, for fear his expression might give something away again.

"You screamed about not being a murderer." Blunt, ouch. Rocket winced a bit but made his eyes stay resolutely forward, even if they allowed a small peek at the warrior next to him.

Drax was twisted in his chair, forearm propping him up as he fixed the mammal with his gaze, trying to read the hopefully inscrutable expression across Rocket's face. Much as Drax wanted to hear it, Rocket didn't want to think about his nightmare and he didn't want to talk. So it surprised him when the words bubbled past his lips.

"I was back at th' compound. I was in the moment I went on my... my rampage." He breathed out the words, feeling the knot forming in his throat. "They'd hurt me, torn me from whatever dumb existence I'd had an' used me. Used me to prove that they could take some lower life form and... and bring it into the modern society."

He hissed, letting that animalistic expression dictate how he felt. "But... but at the same time, they'd clothed me when I didn't like being nude, fed me what I wanted, let me watch television. I practically had a good life going on in there after I'd gotten sentient!"

"But that is not what your mind focused on, is it?" Drax offered gently.

"No. What I wanted was to see them suffer just as much as I had." He gripped hard at the controls in front of him. "An'... an' I did." He finished quietly.

"How many?"

"Thirty six. It's still unsolved. No one's ever put the fact that the compound went up in flames with the fact that I didn't exist until just after it together." He let out a weak laugh. "You must think I'm crazy, to feel remorse over killing them after what they did."

"I do not think that you are crazy. Angry and confused, yes." The chair creaked as Drax got out of it, moving to step behind the mammal. The hands pushed onto Rocket's shoulders again and those thumbs started to work their magic, easing the built ache and tension out of them.

Rocket breathed out slowly before he just let his head sink forward, chin touching his chest as he let himself focus on that sensation. The thumb started just under the muscle, pinching the tightened cord between itself and the fingers on the opposite side. As it rolled up, it brought the muscle a little with it before letting it go. Again and again, in time with Rocket's breathing, each one making the mammal practically whimper in delight. He'd felt something like this when they were amid the ruins of the Dark Aster, Drax's hand on his head and comforting him in his moment of loss.

He'd been so surprised then, as much as he was now, to even think of berating Drax for doing that in public. He'd needed it, much as he needed this, to let him know that things were going to be just fine. That he was okay, that he wasn't going to snap against his friends when he'd lost the only person he'd ever known. He'd put Groot into some dirt and a pot then and there, his only response when asked was that he had to try something, that Groot regenerated from losing his arms. That it had to work.

He sniffed, not realizing that he was letting his tears flow freely. A hand pressed on his head and rubbed behind his ears, the other starting to rub in slow circles on his lower back. He hated opening himself like this, it felt like a cosmic joke that he was such a tough guy who wept like some sniveling brat. "It is okay, Rocket. I understand the inner conflict inside of you."

"Yeh? Well, I'm glad someone on this flarkin' ship does." He murmured, voice shaking with the need to bawl. At least everyone else was asleep, they didn't have to see the mammal acting like this. "Jus' feel like I need t' keep everything from everyone at all times and it kinna stinks. I gotta be the guy who doesn't get upset, not after that outburst on Knowhere." That had been memorable, it echoed in his head.

_I didn't ask to get made! To get torn apart, over and over again and then put back together into some... Little monster! _He'd screamed at the top of his lungs to Quill and Drax in the middle of a crowd. He'd been drinking that night but what night did he not drink anymore? He was sure his liver was pickled by this point but it still kept going, probably something else those bastards had changed in him.

The hand on his back moved forward and around, dull fingernails raking through his stomach. He groaned under the different sensation and let himself lean back, drawing out of that tight little ball he'd made of himself. He hummed throatily despite his best efforts, his right leg twitching just slightly as the man helped to calm him down from his bitter sorrow.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, inky blackness took him deep into slumber. Not a single dream disturbed his rest, he didn't hurt quite so much anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

"DIE YOU SCALY MOTHERFUCKERS!" The battle cry shrieked into the sun-beaten landscape, Rocket unloading round after round into a troop of Badoons as they approached with weapons drawn. His hand shook in the grip, throwing off his aim but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. Every lance of energy made his whole hand vibrate, even as it punched through the green-scaled aliens' armors and left gaping, gory holes in their wake.

Surrounding the rest of the battlefield was a contingent of the vile aliens, but the mammal's friends were putting up a fight. Quill's element gun blasted out fire and lightning, scorching flesh and sending wails of pain into the air from whoever managed to get into the Star Lord's path. Gamora's sword sliced and cut enemy after enemy into ribbons, laying this one open or that one rendered a paraplegic. Her ease in the middle of battle left Rocket stunned, she looked so natural laying waste to their foes.

But the one that drew the procyon's attention the most was Drax. His muscles flexed under the hot sun, beads of sweat across his green and red body as he roared in triumph. He threw his knife across the battlefield, planting it to the hilt in a badoon's head before charging after it. In one smooth and easy motion, he grabbed hold of the handle, flipping over the falling soldier and rising to meet another foe's neck with the freshly extricated blade. His face gleamed with the madness of combat, blood spattered across his features in spots as he grinned. A terrible and horrible grin of a man who was envisioning his enemy in place of these 'paper men' as he'd enjoyed calling them.

Rocket never saw the shot, only watched as Drax shouted for him to watch out. Pain jolted up the procyon's spine as he caught the scent of burning hair and flesh. His. It radiated up his back as he fell to the ground, darkness claiming him. As the cloud of unconsciousness took him, he felt strong arms pick him up and cradle him to a chest that smelled of acrid sweat and stank like a man.

Rocket woke on his stomach, his vision blurred as he tried to focus. He heard dim voices, discussing something in hushed, quiet voices. Something soft was underneath him, the fabric crinkling underneath him. Bed. The word came to him slowly. He was on a bed.

He blinked a few times, trying to clear the dimness out of his sight and focus on what was around him. Clean floor. Spotless walls painted white. Metal instruments of some sort. He groaned low in his throat as he moved to sit up to find that he couldn't.

Something held around his wrists and legs, something that he didn't like the feeling of. He jerked experimentally at them, his eyes going wide as they proved as immovable as he felt they might be. He felt his throat tighten, his mouth go drier than if he'd stuffed cotton into it.

The scent of antiseptic and a clean, clinical smell invaded his nose. "No." He croaked out weakly, realizing just where he was. "No no no!" He jerked suddenly against the bindings on his arms and legs, his chest heaving as it tried to keep up with his breathing. He knew where he was, he knew what this place was. It was a hospital. Or a hospital room aboard a ship.

A hand approached him and he bit it, his teeth sinking hard into the flesh. The green hand pulled back just as suddenly as it moved into view and Rocket caught a glimpse of red lines. Drax? He tasted metal on his tongue and realized he'd bit hard enough to draw blood but that was only a small realization amongst many others.

He'd been shot. On the back, if his position was any judge. He hissed like some caged animal, baring his teeth as he clawed and scrabbled at his bindings. When that proved ineffective, he started to bite, chewing on the wires that were holding him down. Somewhere a voice was calling to him, trying to plead with him. He didn't recognize it and he didn't want to hear it. Fear was clouding his mind, driving down any sentient thought and leaving instinct. Out. He needed out. He bit down into his arm, just above the elbow. He fully intended to chew through his own arm to escape before the same hand from earlier forced him away from it.

This time, it held down onto his head, leaving enough room above the pillow for Rocket to breathe. Now he understood the voice, the thumb running along the back of his ear quieting down his thrashing into nothing but a simpering whine. "Rocket. Please calm down." The voice coaxed, concern worked into it. It was working, the raccoon felt himself slowly coming down off of whatever panicked and pained fear was choking him.

Slowly he calmed down, feeling only the gentle petting along the back of his head. He felt wetness along his upper arm and a pain that started to throb. He'd pierced the muscle a bit and he'd need some more attention there. "Drax...?" He said softly, his voice weak.

"I am here, my friend." The man stated simply, easing the pressure off of the raccoon's skull. Rocket moved his head to look up at his friend, seeing first the hand that Drax held under his arm. Then up to his face filled with worry. "The others have been taking it in shifts to watch over you, to be here when you woke up. It is my shift, now."

"Sorry about yer hand... issit gonna be okay?" Rocket swallowed, trying to get the taste of blood out of his mouth.

"Yes, it will just need a bandage. You did not pierce the muscle." There was a pause. "You had an adverse reaction to your situation."

"Y' wouldn't believe how many times I woke up just like this in that stinkin' place. I guess it all just came back at once." Rocket let his voice drip with sorrow, to show that he was truly sorry about his reaction. "I got shot in the back and it's burned, right? They don't want me on m' back so I don't end up getting it infected."

"That's correct. It is a small wound, they will probably be by soon to redress the bandages. They had to make sure that your implants were going to be okay, the doctors had no idea what of your vital functions were connected to the devices and what weren't."

Rocket listened to the explanation with a light sigh, his eyes closing as he tried to envision just how bad the damage was by feel alone. His back was numb, just underneath his shoulders, a circle about three inches around. What nerves weren't dead told him there was a large bandage across the area, covering even his implants in the soft gauze. Probably some sort of numbing gel they'd put on him, along with the antibiotics and antiseptics. Even without knowing much of his anatomy, the doctors had done admirably in taking care of him.

"Drax?"

"Yes?" The voice inquired.

"Thanks for rescuing me." He admitted flatly, pushing the words out from between his teeth.

"I saw you go down, I'd tried to warn you. You missed a shot and one of the badoons you'd thought downed brought his weapon against you. His skull is now but a smear upon that planet's surface."

Rocket allowed himself a weak laugh, groaning as he felt pain shoot through one of his ribs. "Damn, I thought you'd left him alive for me. Ah well, there's always next time."

"There will not be a next time. I will not allow you hurt again." The warrior's face was scrunched up in a resolute and prideful visage. He meant it, too. It was almost... endearing? Cute? Rocket shook his head. The fuck was he thinking cute for?

"I'll hold ya to it. But for now... I should sleep."

"That would be wise. I shall leave you to recover to the best of your ability." The jade colored man made to move but Rocket called after him.

"W-wait. Maybe... maybe y' could stay?" Rocket whispered needingly. He hated himself for this but something in him fluttered at the thought of Drax leaving him alone. "I... could ya scratch behind my right ear for me? It's itchin' like crazy."

There was a silent moment before the groan of a leather chair sounded nearby and a comforting weight placed itself on the mammal's head. A freshly clipped fingernail found itself behind Rocket's right ear and started to scratch, a rhythmic motion that made Rocket groan in delight.

It was weeks later, the only thing that remained from Rocket's encounter with the wrong end of a blaster was a new scar mixed in with the warped tissue of his back. It ran between his shoulders and above the implants and it still stung from time to time. He walked through the halls of the Milano in the dim quiet of a lazy 'afternoon', his destination clear in his mind.

He knocked on a featureless door, knuckles beating against the metallic surface. A pause and then he was admitted into the room, a cot decorated with a pillow and blanket just for him waiting.

"I am glad that you have made your appointment for the day, Rocket. I was unsure if I would have to go and collect you again." Drax said as he closed the door behind the procyon, watching as Rocket used a miniature stepladder to climb up onto the cot. Drax averted his eyes as the mammal shimmied out of his clothing and got under the blanket, propping his head onto his arms.

"Yeh, I actually remembered it t'day." The raccoon gave a sheepish smile at that, watching as the muscle-bound man approached him. There was a fluid-like noise and a rub of calloused hands before he felt the easy pressure on his back. It made him melt as they started to work, the heel of the large man's palms pushing down against his shoulders and working the tension out of his musculature.

After Rocket had been discharged from the hospital, he'd unofficially hired Drax as his physical therapist to help him recover. It mostly just involved the raccoon getting a massage but over the last few weeks he'd started opening up more and more to the large man. Spilling some of the details of his early life, such as how he'd met Groot or how he'd gotten convicted for fifty different charges of vehicular theft.

To Drax's credit, he'd listened quietly each time Rocket had felt like speaking. He offered some small pieces of advice, turning more full therapist than just one for Rocket's physical woes. It was easy to talk to the large man, easier than he'd ever thought.

"When I first met ya, I thought ya were just some crazy lummox who would sooner kill us than talk to us. Glad I got proven wrong about that."

"You were nothing more than vermin to me." Came the retort. "But I am also glad that you have come to be a trusted friend and ally. If anyone dares call you vermin again, come to me. I will break their necks."

Rocket snorted a bit. The larger man had started making him laugh more, it was easy to be in good spirits. It might've had to do with the vulnerable situation of being on his stomach with those broad hands across his back but he enjoyed it. Either way, he was slowly reduced into a humming ball of fur with those rhythmic strokings across his spine and shoulders. His tail even gave a soft little flick from one said to the other, his breathing slowing down.

Thirty minutes in absolute paradise as Drax worked, those strong hands working Rocket's spine into a better shape for itself and relieving him of pinched nerves and stiff muscles. The mammal was surprised he didn't fall asleep again, as comfortable as the situation was making him. He could feel every bit of tension from the last week getting lifted from off of his shoulders.

"You are finished, your muscles are loose again. Please do not hesitate to ask if you are feeling undue stiffness." Drax said as he wiped his hands clean on a fresh towel, stepping back from the thrumming furred mammal.

"What, any and all stiffness?" Rocket grinned like a rascal, eyes glittering with mischief. "Even something a little down south?" He never meant anything by it, but he still couldn't help joking.

"If that is truly a problem, then I would." Drax's expression was inscrutible, though Rocket was dimly aware of his mouth suddenly hanging open. And then the raccoon laughed, a genuine and full laugh. It was the same sort of one that Quill had tried to mock him over when the idiot had told him he only had twelve percent of a plan.

Drax merely smiled softly. "I have enjoyed your companionship since you were injured and felt that perhaps you had the same opinion of my company. If I am wrong, then I am sorry."

"I. I ergh." It startled the raccoon to even think about it but maybe he was building some sort of feelings for the large man. He bit his lower lip as he furrowed his brow in thought, scratching at his upper arm in a fit of nervousness. "Maybe I am." He said quietly. The mammal coughed softly, adjusting himself in his place. "Maybe we can make somethin' of it, if yer comfortable with that..."

He felt like such a bitch, even as he looked sheepishly up at the large man. Drax's expression softened slightly before he just gave a chuckle. "How about this, we make a deal. We try this, we see how far it goes before we don't feel comfortable with one another. The moment we stop enjoying each other's company, we stop the relationship." He extended his hand, splaying out the light green fingers.

Rocket took the offered hand with a shake of his head. The man was positively impossible but what he said made sense. "All right... so what do we do first?"


	4. Chapter 4

Drax awoke. The ship was running on the bare minimum of power, the only light was coming from the stars they passed by and a distant sun blazing for all to see. His mouth turned down in confusion as to what might have awoken him before he noticed that the small but reassuring weight on his bed was gone.

He sat up slowly, keeping his motions as light as possible to not make the bed creak or cause the sheets to rustle unduly. His ears strained to hear past the thrumming of the ship's engine down below them but he couldn't hear anything but the sound of his own breaths. That clinched it for him. He shifted out of the bed, only donning a pair of underwear for the sake of what companions he might meet in the hallway. He'd learned his lesson quite a few months ago that they did not appreciate seeing him in his nude glory like Rocket had seemed to. And even the miniscule mammal had begged him to not 'strut about th' place with his willie hangin' about'.

Doors opened before him automatically, his first idea was to check the cockpit. The mammal usually ended up here if he'd had a night terror or just couldn't get to sleep. No such luck, as the pilot's chair proved to be just as empty as the large man's bed. Even now, Drax could feel his frown deepen as he head downstairs into the meeting hall slash kitchen. Even just a quick peek in showed that it was just Groot, now residing in a pot over in the corner. He'd grown to a size matching Rocket's in such a short time, it was good to see him so nourished.

Alarms started their sounds inside of the man's head as he made his way curiously through the ship, poking his head into rooms and waiting just long enough to confirm he didn't hear a small hiccup or a sniffle or even just the sound of claws on the ground. His steps started to sound unevenly, a minor worry turning into a panic as he couldn't find Rocket anywhere that he looked. He even started to peer under furniture, tables, chairs, anything that might hide the diminutive raccoon's form from him.

As he walked by the engine room, that's when he heard the first clatter. Such a tiny noise that Drax wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been listening for any sort of sound that was out of place. He pushed the button beside the door, only being met with a denial sound, brow deepening as he pushed it again. Still nothing. With no other option, Drax ripped open the panel and connected the two wires as Rocket had showed him and was met with the rewarding sound of the door rushing open.

The engine wasn't quite as loud as one might expect, a hum that vibrated enough to be heard and felt, but that wasn't Drax's concern. A workbench stood in a corner, having been pushed or forced into place at some point in the past. A gun lay in pieces on it, stripped down into its base parts with the obvious intent of putting it back together again. Grease stains and tools were strewn everywhere, a fit of work having seized someone before they'd thrown everything to the side.

A sound made Drax's blood turn to ice. It was the click and hum of a weapon powering up, the barrel extending to something like a sniper rifle. He turned slowly, following the noise's source to find Rocket standing there. Eyes wide and unseeing, his chest visibly heaving as he leveled the blaster at the larger man's head.

Rocket's voice was a hiss, a shadow of its normal self as he whispered heatedly. "Step in! Stay where I can see yer hands!" His tongue ran over his lips, swallowing quickly. "I know why yer here. Yer here to make me go back. I ain't goin' back." To the procyon's credit, he kept his voice down and level enough that he wasn't in danger of waking someone. But that was hardly what Drax was focused on.

"Rocket. Rocket, where are you right now?" A weird question at any other time, but it was meant to make the mammal think critically of the moment, just what was going on. It was enough to make Rocket pause, at the very minimum.

Rocket only saw a white coat and raised hands, a soothing voice to calm him down. Sterile white walls and floors surrounded him, cages at his back. His ears twitched as he felt a hum, but that just seemed to fit with everything else. Generator. Something like that.

His heart felt like it was going to pop out of his chest, his lungs ached for air despite taking so much in. Even his throat hurt against a lump in it. His fingers shook as he grasped the rifle in his hands, finger skating along the trigger in quick bursts.

The man in front of him was speaking calmly. They always did. "I'm not here to take you anywhere, Rocket. I'm here to talk." It said. He didn't want the cage again. He didn't want anything to do with what he was seeing in that psychotic part of his mind.

"No. You're here to put me back in that damned contraption and put those needles in me and make my back hurt." He kept from screaming, not wanting to alert other guards. He'd seen them on his way here, sleeping peaceful in their beds. Why was this one here. He just needed out, his tools were laying across the floor. He had been about to stop the generator, he would've made them suffer in the dark. He just ran out of the time he'd needed.

"I will not take you anywhere you do not wish to go. I just need you to come back to me right now. You are seeing things that are not there. Ghosts in your mind." It made Rocket shake his head and for a moment there was an engine room instead of sterile walls. He frowned, letting the blaster droop in his hands slightly.

There was a crash, the gun being taken out of his hands before he could take a tighter grip. He scrabbled against flesh, claws sinking in until they felt the gratifying warmth of blood. It pooled against his fingers before the arms locked around his chest and thighs wrapped around his legs. He tried to bite, to make his attacker let go, but it was no use. So he did the only thing he could.

Rocket screamed.

The noise pierced through everything else, a horrendous and heart-wrenching noise of fear, anger and sorrow keening out of the mammal in his arms. Drax kicked the blaster further out of reach as he just held Rocket in his arms. He barely noticed the crimson he was spreading against the mammal's fur and onto the floor, a deep gash through his right arm burned but he didn't care.

He rocked slowly with Rocket in his grip, his voice rising against Rocket's ear as he hummed a lullaby. He hoped it would work, he'd sung it to his daughter many times before when she'd woken in the middle of the night.

Quill, Gamora and Groot burst into the engine room, each of them looking around before finding the source of the noise. Drax looked up at them with pleading eyes, he didn't know what to do. Rocket's voice was giving out, the screams turning into croaks and finally into mewling whispers as he worked his vocal cords raw.

One by one, they sat down next to Drax. None of them reached to pet Rocket's head, but each of them added their voice to Drax's hushed lullaby. Slowly, very slowly, something started to give inside of the procyon. Some trigger hitting him. Unseeing eyes flared with life suddenly, the deep browns blinking a few times as he focused on everyone crooning to him.

Rocket smelled copper and felt wetness on the fur of his stomach. His first thought was that he'd cut himself open before he realized there wasn't a fiery pain like all the other times he'd been nicked. Voices were whispering a lullaby to him, trying to settle him down. He stopped moving so much, feeling a powerful hurt in his throat. It was like someone had strangled him, but the fire rested in his voice. He could scarcely talk.

"What are you guys doin'?" He finally managed to croak out. He felt weak, weaker than he'd ever been in the past. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, trying to calm down his heart from hammering so damned hard. When he pushed against the arms holding him, this time they let go. Rocket stood shakily on his own feet, meeting everyone's eyes with his own. "Th' hell's everyone doin' down here?"

"Rocket, you... you were having a nightmare. Some kind of attack where you couldn't see what was really there." Dim recollections of white walls, white floors and a blaster thrumming in his hands pushed down on Rocket's skull and made it hurt. He clutched at the side of his head as a migraine formed. The pain pushed at the back of his eye.

"I don't remember." He whimpered softly, but even he could tell that those three words made his teammates flinch. "Why can't I remember? I went t' bed an'... an'." His voice hitched in his throat. He remembered waking up down here, in Drax's arms with blood on him. He felt a sob bubble in his throat, breaking through the silence. He'd had this before. Many times before. But usually he'd just bolt upright in his bed and need to drink water or something.

Strong arms collected him from his position on the floor. He heard Drax's voice and felt it against him. "I have him now. Thank you, friends. We shall see you in the morning."

Rocket slid into sleep, thankfully it was dreamless. Just a fall into inky black and he felt nothing more.

Rocket woke to an empty bed and his head throbbing in pain. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the shower, letting the hot water soak into his fur as he stood there in silence. He only stayed there long enough to let the sweat and blood rinse out of his fur, dressing in an old prison uniform that he'd managed to sneak out along with some other souvenirs of one of his stints.

No one dared talk to him on his way into the kitchen: Gamora and Quill just ate their breakfasts in complete quiet as Rocket pushed some bread into the toaster, waiting on standby with the blackberry jam. It was an awkward silence, no one wanted to talk about last night but the question was left burning in everyone's throats.

Rocket didn't care. He bit into the toast as soon as it wasn't quite so hot, the sweetness on his tongue from the jam satisfying that need for sweets. He kept his eyes down at his food, not even once looking at Quill or Gamora or even Groot standing in the corner. Something itched in the back of his mind, a tiny little scrabble of thought. _They hate you_. It tried to whisper in his ear.

He shook his head. That was wrong, they'd all helped in settling him down. Not a single person had avoided confronting him when he was in the middle of that episode. He finished the toast without a word to anyone, pushing the plate forward for someone else to put it into the sink.

He saw Quill open his mouth, the blond human looking as if about to say something before Gamora shook her green head. Rocket heard her as he left the room, his hearing catching the urgent tone in her voice. "Let him talk to us, Quill. Forcing it out of him will onl-" Rocket stopped paying attention as he rounded one of the corners and head up the stairs. He felt like a ghost of his former self, some kind of shell that had put on his skin and was walking around.

Oh, yes. His problems were numerous, he reflected inwardly as he eased into the pilot's seat. Panic attacks, night terrors, phobias that even he didn't bother counting out in his mind. He clutched around the steering sticks until his fingers hurt from the too-tight grip. It was what made him, him. Why he was so edgy all the time, why he wanted nothing more than to plant a blaster round in someone's head for looking at him funny before even thinking of talking to them.

He'd been talking to Drax sometimes, during the little massage sessions that the large man gave to him. Their little 'arrangement' hadn't progressed much farther than kissing and maybe fondling one another. Every time that Rocket or Drax wanted to take things a step further, Rocket ended up pushing it back away and they just cuddled in the quiet.

A noise. The quiet footfalls of booted feet on the ground. He knew without looking exactly who it was, but he was still surprised when the green hand pushed down on the auto-pilot button and made Rocket's chair turn around to face him.

Drax's face was grim, a bandage wrapped around the entirety of his right forearm. Rocket felt a surge of emotion, his hand reaching out slowly to brush over the cotton gauze. He'd done that, he'd made Drax get hurt because he couldn't control himself.

Immediately Drax's face softened into something akin to what Rocket would describe as love, the larger man sinking to his knees so that his face was level with the mammal. "I do not blame you." Drax started softly. "I blame the.. the creatures that did this to you." He stretched his arms out, wrapping them around Rocket and holding him.

"You are broken, but I want nothing more than to put you back together again." Drax said simply. "We all want you back together, to help you finally feel right in your own existence."

"Yeh... I know, Drax." Rocket whispered. His voice still hurt and it just hurt more to talk. "I jus'... I dunno. I'm not good with talkin' about m' problems an' I'm even worse about... about doin' anythin' to help keep m'self calm."

"You have us. You have me." Drax said simply. "Your friends will not let you hurt yourself in the moment and I certainly will never let anything you say or do in a panic affect me." Drax paused for a moment. "Did you want to try talking about it today or do you want to wait?"

"I can't really do much talkin' when y' can barely hear me, can I?" Rocket let himself smile, even if he felt less than happy at the moment. He pressed in close to Drax, letting his hand rub slowly along that wounded arm. He kissed at it, letting his head rest on it after a few moments.

"No, I suppose you can't." Drax let it trail off before he picked Rocket up, shifting around so that the mammal was resting on his lap. "Here. We can just sit here like this and not have to move."

It only took a few moments before Rocket started cracking that shell just a bit more. His weak voice whispering of men in white coats. Of needles. Of long times spent in an immersion tank so that he might heal from whatever injuries they gave him. Of information being forcibly crammed into his head via bursts of sound and colors and lights and head hurting too much.

Rocket talked until he couldn't breathe, until he needed water and he kept talking. It all spilled out, a sordid history that he had done his best to keep under wraps but now... now he needed to have it all out there.

It was the first step on a long, long road for the both of them and they were going to walk it together.


	5. Rocket's Origin

It's a private thing, something Rocket had held onto for a long time. A single disk, kept locked away in a box that he always hid under his bed. For better or for worse, he'd never wanted to watch it over and over again, to bottle away the rage that he felt. But now, with shaking hands, he puts it into the disk drive and presses the play button on the disk reader.

* * *

"Data log, subject 89P13, four months after removal from amniotic fluid. Test subject shows remarkable growth in the neural cortex, along with understanding of simple concepts. Responds to the commands 'yes, no, stop and go' with relative ease, difficulty in all others. We expect further growth within the next-"

* * *

They test him, constantly. Shapes that go into the same shape, rings that need to be sorted by size, by color, by weight.

It takes him a few tries to get the new tests right and each time he fails, he gets put into the thing. The thing with too many shapes and lights and colors and sounds and it makes his head hurt. But it makes his head hurt twice because there's the thing that goes on his head and then all the images at once and he just wants it to go away and not come back, but he knows he only gets this if he doesn't get the things they want him to get.

So he learns quickly to do what they want him to do, to put the right shapes to the right shapes, to match the colors to pictures that have the same color. He understands yes and no and stop and go because that's all they ever say to him. Go means he has to do something, stop means its over, yes for when he does right and no for when he does wrong.

It's too much.

* * *

"Data log, subject 89P13, five months after removal from amniotic fluid. Subject continues to progress and my colleagues feel that it is time for him to get the speech modifications to his jaws. This will require intensive restructuring of the nasal passages, wiring of the maxilla and mandibles. Estimated recovery time of a month..."

* * *

They're standing over him, the men in white coats. All of them wear masks and gloves and they look and smell clean. Two are women, four are men. How odd that he knows that just by looking at them. This is his first time in this room, they'd never shown him this place before. It must be some new test that they have for him.

One babbles something at another one and a mask gets lowered over his face. The air smells wrong, really wrong, but he can't fight against it. It's making him sleepy, like he should just take a nap right here and right now. He can't fight it as he drifts off.

When he wakes up, he has bandages on his face and his face hurts too much, it feels like that time he stubbed his toe and it bent in a wrong, wrong, wrong way but so much more than that.

* * *

"Data log, subject 89P13, seven months after removal from amniotic fluid. Subject has said his first words today, asking for more water during a language session. This is fantastic, as it seems he has wonderfully understood the concept of having more of an item. His body has grown to the point of needing new cybernetics in his legs and spine to account for bipedal movement and-"

* * *

The scientists all cheered for him when he asked for more water. Maybe that meant that they were going to treat him as More. That he was going to stop getting those... those sharp metal things put into him.

* * *

He's on a table with his back laid open. He knows because they've shown him what it looks like in the thing. He knows that right now his spine is exposed to the open air and they haven't made him sleep because they need to know if something is going wrong.

He screams in pain as the drill starts up and makes holes where there shouldn't be holes, digging into bones that should be left alone. Today they have what's going into him set out on a tray, he can see the wires meant to connect to ports that they're making. It's a weird word to say, wire. He says it aloud without thinking and one of the men in white looks at him funny.

He does the only thing he can think to do and just keeps saying the word over and over again. It helps him a little bit with the pain, but he stops when they ask him to stop. He doesn't want to go back into the thing again. His head still hurts from last time.

* * *

"This will be the first recorded interview with Subject 89P13. It is one year after his removal from amniotic fluid and these interviews will be to test the subject's mental health. For further records, this is Doctor K'enn of Spartax presiding over the interviews."

"How are you feeling today, 89P13. I understand that yesterday you had surgery to correct a back problem that your cybernetics were giving you?"

For a moment, the mammal is mute in his chair. He's been in a room like this before but it was just to do those tests and puzzles. Now today they wanted him to talk and they especially wanted him to talk to this doctor.

"Hello." The syllables slur out of his mouth clumsily. He winced a bit before the doctor made a light spin with his fingers. Continue. He knew it meant continue from the information booth. "I am." He pauses for a moment. "I am sub-ject 89P13. And my back hurt a lot yesterday, so the doctors fixed it."

The man looks satisfied with his response, shuffling some papers around. "Of course, Subject 89P13 is still mentally a child. He has displayed rapid learning capabilities..." 89P13 knows he's not being talked to but the man is talking to the black thing. Camera. Talking into the camera. He waits, his feet kicking slightly at the open air as he waits. His back still hurts like fire, like they pushed him back first into one of the hot lights..

"89P13, I am going to give you a simple worksheet and a writing implement." The mammal looks up as the paper is passed over to him, along with a simple nub of charcoal, just large enough for his fingers to grasp. Why did they never give him a pen or pencil like they had?

On the page was numbers. Numbers on top of numbers with symbols next to them and below them and above them. For a moment the paper swam in front of his eyes before he forced himself to focus. "This is a mathematics worksheet. You know numbers, yes? How some numbers are bigger than others and some numbers are smaller? What we want you to do is make the numbers like they need to be."

And that's how he learns addition and subtraction.

* * *

"Data log, Subject 89P13, one year and six months after removal from amniotic fluid. Subject is here for interview again and-"

"One year and six months. That is almost to my second birthday, right?" 89P13 never meant for the question to slip out, but it seems to make the doctor scramble a bit. The man is funny sometimes, he has a large white beard and scraggly white hair, but today his eyes narrow a bit and they look dangerous and glittery.

"Who has told you this concept, 89P13?" It's a question that's thinly veiled. Someone was in trouble if they'd told the mammal this information.

"No one, sir." He shifted guiltily in his seat. "I was going over the reading you assigned for me and saw a math problem." He paused to collect his thoughts. "M'ary is twice K'elly's age this year. Next year on her birthday she will be three times her sister's age. How old is M'ary." He bit into his lower lip, something he'd learned meant worry.

There's a pause that hangs in the air, an awkward silence that stinks of bad. 89P13 had done something bad and this meant that he was going into the information booth again.

"Yes, 89P13. That was indeed in your assigned reading. And you're correct, your 'birthday' is soon. In six months." The word birthday is filled with cynicism, but 89P13 doesn't notice.

"Six months." The syllables are out before he can stop them.

"Indeed. Let the record state that 89P13's reading materials will be monitored for new information and the presiding interviewer will have forewarning of possible questions that 89P13 might have next time." This sounded angry but it wasn't angry at him.

It wasn't angry at him.

* * *

"Data log, Subject 89P13, Two years of age. Subject is a full adult male of his species by all records, growth was delayed due to compound 84a's introduction in amniotic fluid. This has caused 89P13's development to stretch for more than a year longer than nature but it is expected this will give him a four thousand percent increase in lifespan."

"That means I will live longer, right, Doctor K'enn?" 89P13 doesn't look up from his worksheet as he works out the problems given to him. They don't seem like the normal problems, they're just... questions. About what he thinks, there's no right answer that he can think of. But what he writes is what he thinks. They want to know what he thinks.

"Yes. By all accounts, you would be in your senior years if you were a typical male of your species." The statment has pride in it, an inflection of happiness and smugness wrapped into one. It leaves a bad taste in 89P13's mouth.

"That's good." Short and sweet, but it's enough of an answer that the doctor is satisfied.

"Currently the subject is writing paragraph answers to questions about reading materials and data given to him via information booth feeds. He will be graded on how well thought out his answers are, instead of if they are correct."

"That means I can write anything I want about what th' question says? Like 'what is the motivation behind th' man in chapter two?'" He didn't know when, but he'd adopted an accent after hearing one of the other scientists speak in one. It made him feel good. Like it was something that belonged to him.

There was a light twinge in the air as K'enn sighed. "Yes." He paused a moment. "Subject continues to speak in 'accented' language, discussion is on hold about re-training subject in use of proper pronunciation of words due to letting subject express a modicum of individuality."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know why I started." He doesn't look up from what he's writing. "I like it though. It makes me sound... me."

"It's fine, 89P13. Anyway, your time is up for the day."

* * *

"Emergency data log, subject 89P13. Two years and four months of age. Subject acted aggressive today when one of my colleagues stopped by his room today. Doctor B'enjamin tried to take 89P13's dictionary away after the scheduled reading hour was up and was met with hostility."

"It's mine! It's mine, I tell ya!" The scream reaches from the table.

"Subject 89P13 is to be subjected to questioning about his behavior after he calms down. All materials currently on loan to the subject are to be returned to their proper holding places." K'enn has to speak up over 89P13's screams. Good. Let him. Let whoever was hearing those things hear how infuriated he was.

He wasn't some thing. He was a person. Right? He had to be a person, why else were they studying him?

* * *

"Data log, subject 89P13, day after previous emergency log. 89P13 has calmed down and agreed to an interview. Let's start. 89P13, why did you act in such an aggressive manner to Doctor B'enjamin?"

The mammal doesn't look up, he keeps his brown eyes pointed down at the table in front of him. His hands are dirty. They haven't let him take a shower since last night and he was starting to feel an itch in the back of his mind.

"Subject 89P13. Why did you act hostile towards Doctor B'enjamin."

He swallows slowly, trying to clear the cotton out of his throat. "He took my dictionary. I wasn't done reading about engines."

"You know very well that you have a scheduled block of reading time every day, yesterday was no different. Any reading you miss out on can be picked up the next day." 89P13 dares a look up and meets the grim visage of the old man. K'enn was the one who told him about birthdays and did all the talking. He never really met any of the other ones in white.

"I know but I was so curious and reading time gives me time to think, sir." 89P13's careful to keep his voice in the clipped, proper pronunciation of words. He wants them to believe he's truly penitent.

"...Very well. However, due to your rash behavior, you will not have a reading block today. On an unrelated note, you go for your last cybernetics surgery tomorrow if all goes well."

89P13 sleeps on the floor that night, wrapped in just a thin blanket for comfort. It's not enough to keep the stiffness out of his joints.

* * *

"Data log. 89P13. Two years and nine months of age. Subject insists on being called 'Rocket'. He claims that he has a right to a name and not 'a set of d'ast numbers and a letter' when referring to him. We continue to stress to him that he must use his assigned coding for all research materials, worksheets and formal interviews, but we have become slightly lax in informal settings." The old man clears his throat a bit. He's been clearing his throat a lot lately and keeps having to dab his libs with a handkerchief.

"89P13. You keep asking for reading materials on ships of the known galaxy, your species, other sectors of life in the area. Despite being rebuffed many times, you keep asking. Why is this?"

"Because I want t' know what I am an' what else is out there. I don't know anything beyond these d'ast four walls and I only ever get to go the library or t' my shower. I deserve to know, doc."

"You do not deserve anything beyond what we are willing to teach you, 89P13. You are given free reign in your room, the library and your activities in either are only monitored when you make us have to monitor you by acting out of turn."

Black fists slam into the table in front of him, 89P13 stands at his full three feet of height on the chair with his teeth bared. He immediately regrets it when he feels a jolt of pain go up his spine and drops to the floor.

"End data log." Comes the harsh tone. Magnetic restraints are clipped to Rocket's wrists and he's dragged away, barely clinging to consciousness. Something burns inside of him that he can't control.

* * *

"Data log. 89P13. 3 years of age. Subject continues to act irrationally and will not sit for an interview. He refuses to do his worksheets or his cognitive exercises. We may have to deem 89P13 unviable as a test subject and proceed to another one."

Rocket didn't know why he was so spiteful towards the doctors, but it was all he could think about with a grim smile on his face. He lay in the dark on top of a blanket, no other sounds around him. No more worksheets. No more anything until they gave him what he wanted.

* * *

"Data log. 89P13. 3 years of age. Subject refuses food and only drinks enough water to manage his intake. He is into day five of a hunger strike and my colleagues are at a loss as to what to do..."

Rocket felt his stomach growl. He heard it. It was a wild beast. Like he was supposed to be. It hurt, it gnawed at his insides and clutched for any sort of purchase it might be able to find. This would be fine. He would deal with this, they could just deal with interviewing a corpse for all he cared.

That'd show them.

* * *

Blinding light awoke Rocket, his ears hearing something but unable to understand what it was. He tried to squint into the light before he realized he had another problem. He couldn't breathe. He tried to suck in a breath through his mouth, thrashing against the bed he was on.

Restraints clutched at his wrists and hands, another one strapped over his stomach. Something was in his throat. It made him gag and retch against it. He bucked and writhed against the strap's. A loud beeping started. Heart monitor. It was going too quickly because his heart was going too quickly.

"Subject 89P13 has awoken. Intubation has provided him with essential nutrients for his body to function. Hunger strike has failed, terminating in forced intubation after anesthetic was pumped into his room via the ventilation..."

* * *

He'd never held a gun before and now was not the time for him to be fumbling over it. Klaxons and red, blinding lights made his head scream in pain but he needed to focus. He'd done it, he'd escaped his room. Ventilation system. He grinned a bit as he worked his way through the halls, ducking into opened doors whenever he was unsure if someone was coming down the hall or not.

His heart pounded in his throat. His breathing was too quick. He needed to calm down. Calm down or he'd give away his position.

"89P13, stop right th-" The voice doesn't have a chance to finish whatever it was saying. A bolt of plasma has ensured that whoever it was would never talk again, leaving a cauterized stump in its place. That's the moment that Rocket feels something break inside of him. He didn't care about clothes or food or whatever things they wanted to give him.

It starts with the guards. Holes riddling their bodies as a shaking hand steadies itself into an unstoppable force. The cybernetics in his hands reduce the kickback naturally, the augmentations to his eyes let him focus on a target several hundred yards down a long hallway. He picks his way carefully through, turning the hunters into the hunted.

Soon he's making his way through the white coats. He doesn't care who gets in his way. One of them tells him where the hangar is, where a ship is. He'd read about ships. Now he was going to fly one. He doesn't pull the trigger on this one. He was one of the good ones.

* * *

K'enn stands in his way. Arms outstretched as if that would make Rocket stop. The hangar door is locked. Rocket would need a hand. Or an eye. It's over in a flash as K'enn falls to the ground holding onto a blackened stump while Rocket picks up the hand and uses it on the door.

He doesn't know how to fly. He hits the weapons by accident. It lances out in an explosive wave as it consumes the hangar in fire. Rocket finds the way to make it go up. It goes up through the roof and immediately pitches too far forward. He's going to crash, he's going to cra-

* * *

He wakes up, bones aching. One of his fingers is bent the wrong way. He stumbles out of the wreckage as if through a fog. Ringing in his ear. Tinnitus. A symptom of a crash. Oily smoke ravages through the sky in front of him, he's standing on a cliff overlooking the facility.

It looked good cloaked in flame, he decided. Fire was where it was meant to be. He'd long since learned the concept from one of the materials he'd read. "Hell." He says the word. It was his personal hell and he would never speak of it again.

He doesn't think about the good ones who might die in there. Who might get caught in the smoke or the fire or the ones he left with holes in them.

He has better things to do, like getting off of this planet.

* * *

He turns off the video, the last image one that he'll remember forever. It's the last recording that the ship he'd stolen ever managed to capture. Just a lone figure standing on a hill, watching as smoke poured into the sky. Blood in his fur, blood on his fingertips, blood around his mouth. He swallowed and looked at the large, green man beside him. Maybe now, Drax understood. They would all understand.

They understand.


End file.
